


What do we do now?

by starknado



Category: Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-05
Updated: 2019-05-05
Packaged: 2020-02-26 02:35:32
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 963
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18714769
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/starknado/pseuds/starknado
Summary: Takes place after Season 8, Episode 3, immediate aftermath of the battle.  The gang is tired.





	What do we do now?

Tyrion was the first of their group to arrive in the Great Hall. He had also been the first to creep out of the crypts, after the dead collapsed as suddenly as they had risen. He had to push against the door, fighting the pile of dead stacked against it. He clambered over dead and cautiously peered around corners. He made it to the courtyard, where there seemed to be the most. It was difficult to tell who had been one of theirs and who had been part of the great army of the dead. He supposed it didn’t matter anymore. He had been marveling at the dawn sky, the brilliant pink of the sun catching the smoke of the still burning fires, when he heard someone calling his name. His brother, leaning against a wall, still catching his breath. He gave him a nod, signaling to Tyrion that they were safe, and Tyrion turned back to the crypt. They all moved cautiously about the castle, half expecting the dead to rise again. He didn’t know the details of what transpired that night. He only knew that he was witnessing a sunrise that he had lost all hope of seeing.

Admitting that there wasn’t much for him to do, he made his way to the Great Hall. Someone must have pulled out the tables and chairs, and he sat an empty one, watching the ebb and flow of people. Everyone was floating, hollow shells of their former selves. He supposed that’s what a night of battling the dead did to a person. A bowl plunked down in front of him, and he saw the solemn face of the Onion Knight. Davos gave him a nod, and left a basket of bread on the table. He hadn’t realized how hungry he was until the food was placed in front of him.

Tyrion listened in on the men and women around him and began to piece together the events of the night. How so many times everyone was sure that the cause had been lost. How they had said their final prayers. One man swore he saw Jon Snow battle the dragon wight. Another talked of Ser Jaime and Ser Brienne, never ceasing, never tiring, never giving up, seeming to fight as one. And the stranger stories. Of little Lady Mormont taking down a giant singlehandedly. Of Arya Stark. Arya Stark annihilating wights, that she dealt the final blow. That she ended the war against the dead. He couldn’t be sure what was true or not, but he certainly wouldn’t want to cross that girl.

Tormund Giantsbane was the first join him, face covered in blood. Then Podrick Payne, his loyal squire. His heart lightened to see the boy safe and sound. His brother and Ser Brienne followed close behind, each of them eagerly grabbing a bowl of soup and a heel of crusty bread. While the Hall was filled with the hum of people talking, this little corner was silent save the sound of spoons scraping bowls. They hardly glanced up when Lady Sansa wheeled Bran towards them, with Arya at her side.

“Sit. Eat,” she commanded, pushing Arya into a chair. Davos set a bowl in front of her and clapped her on the back. Sansa placed a firm kiss on each of her sibling’s brows, so protective of them. Maybe it was true, the murmurs he had heard. Bran was quiet, although that wasn’t so unusual for him these days. Not long after, Jon was practically dragging Lady Sansa into the hall and pushing her into a chair.

“I’ll only stay if you do,” she protested, narrowing her eyes at him. He threw his hands up in frustration, but gave in, taking a hunk of bread and sitting in the chair she had pulled over for him. He took one bite, and then closed his eyes, leaning back in his chair. When he didn’t open them again, Tormund moved to wake him.

“Let the boy sleep,” Davos said, and the wildling backed off. Davos finally took a seat with them, followed by the blacksmith boy. Tyrion hadn’t seen her enter the hall, but soon Daenarys dragged a chair next to him, soon joined by Grey Worm and Missandei. To his surprise, Sansa passed her a piece of bread, which to his greater surprise Missandei accepted with a nod.

He looked around the table, taking stock of each of his companions. His brother and Brienne weren’t looking at each other, but their hands hung between them, fingers barely grazing. Podrick and Tormund were covered in blood and grime and gods only knew what else, but seemed grateful to see the day. Gendry slumped in his chair, slowly picking at the bread in front of him. Davos seemed to have aged a decade during the night, eyes hollow with exhaustion. Daenerys’s hair caught the rosy light of day, but her eyes danced between Jon, Grey Worm, and Missandei, eyebrows furrowed. Sansa’s eyes were red and puffy, making the blue of them stand out even more. Bran may have seemed the same, but he had dark circles under his eyes, making them look bruised on his pale face. Arya propped her feet up on the table, earning a glare from her older sister, but he supposed that if you defeated the Night King, you needn’t worry about decorum anymore. Her manner may have seemed easy, but the blood crusted on her face betrayed the hell she had been through. What they had all been through. Jon, still fast asleep, almost looked like the boy he had met so many years ago in this same place. It felt like many lifetimes ago now. Tyrion finally caught Daenerys’s gaze.

“So,” he began. “What do we do now?”

**Author's Note:**

> I kept imagining a Marvel style post-credits scene after the Battle of Winterfell, so I finally wrote this. My babies are tired and need to sleep for a week.


End file.
